


make me a lawbender

by ZoeBug



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Ancient Times, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Demigods, Gaulish Druid!Jean, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Identity Issues, JeanMarco Gift Exchange, M/M, Roman Officer!Marco, Self-Acceptance, TFW your father is a god but you don't embody his divine virtues, Takes place in Gaul during the Roman conquest of Celtic lands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-17 23:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeBug/pseuds/ZoeBug
Summary: "Why do you speak as if you aren't also of divine birth?"“Why do you speak as if you know anything about me?” Jean growled in frustration, trying to shove his way past Marco’s arms caging him in against the rough wall. But they held firm, solid as any stone.Marco's expression was something sorrowful and weary, as if the words he were was about to speak were things he had carried with him for a long, long time.“Because, I know the weight of it upon my shoulders. I know how small human feet can feel—no matter how divine—when they are trying to fill the shoes of a god. I know what it is to be neither as honorable nor as divine as others expect, good druid. And you would be surprised how easy it is to recognize that in another.”Across the divide of two separate nations, two separate duties, and two separate religions, two demigods find that the things they share in common are altogether human.





	make me a lawbender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sh_wright890](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sh_wright890/gifts).



> For sh_wright890 for the Jean Marco Gift Exchange!  
> I definitely never would have written this unless prompted so thank you for this opportunity to write something different. I really enjoyed it and did far too much research than was probably necessary about ancient Gaul and the Roman's Celtic conquest. But it was fascinating and so fun to write!
> 
> Title taken from "Landsailor" by Vienna Teng
> 
> Happy holidays and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Some notes: Celtic Gaul is located where modern day France, Belgium, Switzerland are, that area. The Aedui people were a Gaulish Celtic tribe that resided in what's now France. The city they're in, Bibracte, was a real ancient city, basically the capital of the Aeduians, and was located in what is now eastern France. I tried to summarize/cliffnotes the other historically pertinent information and fit it into the fic in a non-obtrusive way, but if you have any questions feel free to ask!

 

>   _Lightbringer, tamer of night_
> 
> _Blossom of hours unleashed_
> 
> _Make me a lawbender, all equalized_
> 
> _Saved from the chill and heat_
> 
> _Your power flows through me transformed_
> 
> _Here’s where I was born_

\- [Landsailor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q1dLIq0okvA) by Vienna Teng

* * *

 

“Keep up, would you?”

Jean growled over his shoulder, having to stop and wait for the Roman _optio_ soldier trailing along behind him for the fifth time since they’d left the city-center. He was decidedly less than pleased to have been stuck with the duty of showing the man around Bibracte.

The man was shuffling his feet, gazing around with wide-eyed wonder at the markets and buildings rising around them with distracted awe. The polished bronze chest plate and the helmet he had tucked against his side under his arm gleamed in the bright afternoon sun.

Marco, he’d been introduced as by his commanding centurion. He was strong and skilled enough to be an _optio_ , second in command to a centurion, Jean supposed. His skin was smooth and dark, his hair black, curling gently against his temples. The man had grinned broadly when his commander had introduced him, inclining his head slightly to Jean in greeting. The smile had taken Jean off guard. Which, Jean though, seemed a bit counter-productive for a soldier. Weren’t high-ranking Roman officers supposed to put you on your guard? It seemed too friendly, too amiable an expression for someone of this man’s standing.

Jean scowled. In any case, the soldier sure didn’t look like a son of Mars to him.

Jean wasn’t sure how it worked in Rome, but he was fairly certain demigods were meant to be... impressive at the least.

At Jean’s words, the soldier—Marco—snapped his head up, giving Jean an apologetic little smile. He jogged over, the leather strips of his _pteruges_ bouncing against his thighs, blood red cape fluttering behind him as he did. Jean sighed.

Then again, it was meant to be that way here in Gaul as well. And just look at Jean.

“I apologize,” Marco said, his eyes already drifting away and back to the market stalls around them. “Your city is just _fascinating_.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you have back in Rome,” Jean muttered as he began walking once more, barely catching Marco’s puzzled look at his comment as he brushed past him.

Jean did love his city. Bibracte was in the center of the Aeduian people’s territory and it showed. It was no Rome, but streets of stone wound their way for acres of city, buildings stretching up two stories, underwater springs feeding fountains in the centers of plazas.

Jean loved his city. He was just uneasy of the Roman delegation sent ahead of Ceasar’s visit traipsing about it.

Having always been friendly with the Roman Empire, Bibracte was no stranger to the presence of Romans and their military forces. But just a year after the Aedui had turned on Ceasar’s forces and fought back against their invasions of the surrounding Celtic nations, and only six months since they had surrendered and pledged their returned allegiance, tensions were running high.

Jean turned his head to the soldier who had caught up to him, now once again loping along at his side. Certainly not what he’d expected.

“Have you ever been to Gaul?” Jean asked, steering them around the corner of a building.

“No, not even the eastern-most part,” Marco replied, following Jean down the side street. Jean huffed a humorless laugh.

“What? Too important for them to send you off into the Celtic wilderness?”

“Me?” Now it was Marco who scoffed from Jean’s side. Jean turned his head to the man, watching as he ducked his head, seeming almost embarrassed. “Yeah, right.”

“What do you mean?” Jean asked. Marco didn’t lift his head, his mouth slanting into a rueful smile.

“It’s nothing. Pay me no mind, good druid.” He shook his head, dismissive, then furrowed his brow in interest, breathing in deeply. “What is that smell by the way?”

Jean was dubious of the subject change but let the _optio_ ’s cryptic words pass.

“The next sight on your tour,” Jean replied as they passed out the other end of the street and into yet another busy market.

“Wow,” Marco breathed, expression a mix of delight and excitement.

“This market is mostly for herbs, spices, and dyes,” Jean explained as he motioned for Marco to follow him as he strode over to the right hand line of stalls. “Things of that sort.”

Marco’s gaze darted about the milling crowd, to the surrounding buildings, up to the bright, clear sky.

The two wandered down the aisle at the far end of the plaza, Jean greeting some of the vendors he knew, and others he couldn’t remember names of greeting him.

Marco paused and Jean nearly bumped into his back. Clad as it still was in his metal chest piece, Jean counted himself lucky not to have as his nose certainly would have fared worse in the collision than Marco’s armor.

Jean huffed in annoyance but Marco either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He simply pointed excitedly to a stall to his right.

“What are these?” Marco asked, and Jean stepped around him to peer at the wares. On one half of the table, a spread of dried plants had been laid out in bundles a cross a rich green cloth. The other half was taken up by a cluster of clay pots in which small seedlings—fresh, living counterparts to the dried herbs.

A tall wooden board had been propped up, leaning against the edge of the table. Line upon line of nails had been hammered almost but not completely into the wood, and around their protruding heads, strings attached to small wooden medallions and figures had been looped. Upon one wooden disk was a tiny, intricate carving of a man hefting a flaming spear, the beams of the sun framing his figure. On another was a woman clad in flowing robes seated at the bank of a river.

Symbols of the Celtic deities. Jean’s gods.

The woman tending the merchandise frowned in confusion at Marco, her furrowed brow so blonde it was nearly invisible, and turned Jean.

“Sir druid! Blessings on you! Do you know what the Roman is asking? Does he want to buy herbs?” she inquired of him excitedly. “I don’t speak any Latin, I’m sorry.”

Marco smiled at the shopkeeper, clearly not understanding, then raised his eyebrows expectantly at Jean.

“What is she saying?” he asked.

Jean sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. Leave it to the Romans to send along people to Gaul who spoke no Gaulish.

“She asked if you’re wanting to buy herbs,” Jean explained to Marco. Marco eyed the merchandise.

“What are they for? Cooking?”

“For praying. To our gods.”

Jean looked to one of the small wooden medallion hanging from the corner of the shopkeeper’s stall.

It was beautifully carved, depicting a man seated with legs folded beneath him, antlers sprouting proudly from his skull. Serpents had been carved curled about his waist like belts, his hands outstretched to tiny, intricate deer and wild boars that surrounded his form.

Looking away from the carving of Cernunnos, god of nature and lord of all wild things, Jean returned his gaze to the shopkeeper and spoke in Gaulish.

“He’s Roman; I think he has his own gods to pray to—ones that care little for the herbs sacred to ours.” He reached out palm up, and the shopkeeper’s eyes widened. She placed her hand in his palm.

He was so bad at this, at being the calm and wise spiritual leader his position required of him. His first instincts were always heated retorts and sullenness, arrogance and quick judgement.

None of which were things that people looked for in a son of Cernunnos.

No matter how grateful the looks in people’s eyes when he performed blessings and spells for them, no matter how pleased his elders were with his progress, the things Jean needed to be to be a good druid were things that did not come naturally to him.

His eyes flicked up to the carving once more. _I try. I really do. But you must know how far I fall short._

“But blessings of Cernunnos upon you from his son,” Jean said to the shopkeeper, placing his other hand atop hers, clasping it between his own. “May your herbs grow quick and strong. May your happiness grow much the same.”

The blessing was familiar in his mouth, long-practiced and rote. He’d been asked to perform such duties since the day he’d been revealed to be the Cernunnos’s mortal son. But that didn’t mean it came easy to him. These kinds of things? They felt like a mask, a costume, something dishonest and fake each and every time.

And yet, at his words, the sprouts of herbs began to shoot upwards, twining and curling about each other’s stems, leaves unfurling at an unnatural rate.

The shopkeeper’s free hand flew up to her mouth in amazement and gratitude. Behind him, Jean heard Marco gasp.

Jean inclined his head toward the woman, patted her hand, then withdrew his and turned to continue walking.

“Thank you! Thank you! Blessings to you!” The woman shouted the words after him, the words hoarse. Jean heard her sniffing. Gods above, was she crying in gratitude? The thought made him uncomfortable.

He was not worth of such awe. He was barely worth of the white robes he wore and the wreath of leaves upon his head marking him as druid, as a spiritual leader.

He felt vaguely nauseous.

“Jean!” It was the soldier, jogging to catch up with him. “Jean, what was- How did- ?!” His voice was amazed, excitable and eager.

“It was nothing,” Jean cut him off in a mocking echo of Marco’s earlier words. “Pay me no mind, good _optio_.”

“But-” Marco protested, trailing after Jean as he progressed toward the end of the row of stalls.

Jean didn’t want to talk about this. Least of all with this _Roman_ demigod. He didn’t want the man running back to Rome, telling how unlike the Celtic gods their Gaulish children were.

“I _said_ it was nothing. Leave it.” Jean muttered, voice steely as he continued briskly past the edge of the market and down another side street. “I should bring you back to your centurion. I have more to do than babysit one of Rome’s honorable and divine sons today.”

Jean was so startled that he didn’t even have time to make a sound of protest as a hand clamped around his wrist, hauling him backwards until his shoulder blades met the wall of the alley. Before he knew it, he was pressed against the rough stone, caged in on either side by the soldier’s thick arms.

His face was so close to Marco’s now, he could feel the man’s breath on his cheeks.

“You might be surprised, good druid,” Marco murmured, voice low and quiet, his face intense and, somehow, rueful, “how wrong you are about that.”

Jean was suddenly angry. Angry at Marco’s easy nature, his unworried confidence in his position as a son of divine origin.

“And _you_ might be surprised to know I’m often wrong. About more than you’d think,” Jean spat, glaring back at Marco. “But I don’t need reminding of it by someone like _you_.”

Marco didn’t reply for a moment, eyes roving Jean’s face, studying him. Up close like this, Jean could see the man’s cheeks were covered in a spray of freckles, like a sky full of stars blossomed across his face beneath the gentle encouragement of sunlight.

“Someone like me?” Marco echoed, his mouth pulling into that same wry, melancholic not-smile as before. “Back there, at that market stall, I saw you coax those plants to grow with nothing but your words. Why do you speak like you aren’t also of divine birth?”

“Why do you speak like you know anything about me?” Jean replied, mocking. He growled in frustration, trying to shove his way past Marco’s arms. But they held firm, solid as any stone.

“Because,” Marco replied. And at once, his face had cleared into something sorrowful and weary, as if the words he were speaking were things he had carried with him for a long, long time. “I know the weight of it upon my shoulders. I know how small human feet can feel—no matter how divine—when they are trying to fill the shoes of a god.”

Jean felt as if he couldn’t move. He stared at Marco, lips parted in preparation for an argument that had long since been evaporated.

Marco’s face was so close, still etched with the lines of something sorrowful. And as he stared into Marco’s eyes, the deep brown of rich forest soil began to glow with bright red light, as if somewhere within them, a fire of some fierce and inhuman sort has been lit.

“I know what it is to be neither as honorable nor as divine as others expect, good druid.” He paused. “Jean,” he amended. His eyes, still lit with that divine fire flicked just once down to Jean’s parted lips and then back up. His voice was low but soft, so sincere something in Jean’s chest ached at the sound of it. “And you would be surprised how easy it is to recognize that in another.”

Jean’s chest felt starved of air. He couldn’t tear his gaze from those bright eyes, illuminating the dusting of freckles like a arching galaxy of stars across his cheekbones. Perhaps, just Marco’s people in the west read the constellations, there could be some cosmic knowledge written there that, if Jean studied long and diligently enough, he could decipher.

“I-”

In the end, he didn’t know what he would have said—if he would have said anything at all.

From somewhere across the city, came the loud and echoing sound of a horn. The sound of an adjourning meeting.

Marco blinked in surprise, turning his head back toward the mouth of the alley, toward the bright clamor of the market there. Using the opportunity, Jean ducked beneath the soldiers arms and stepped around him, dusting the dust and grit of the stone wall from his robes.

“Sounds like our superiors are done hammering out the fate of the city for the day,” Jean muttered, immediately making his way back towards the market. “Come on. I’ll be needing to return you to your commander.”

“Wait-”

Again, there was that hand on his wrist, halting him. Jean let out a long, angry breath.

“I’m unaccustomed to Roman culture, but you should know that it isn’t considered polite in Bibracte to continuously grab at others.”

When he turned to glare at the man, Jean was surprised to find Marco retracting his hand quickly, his eyebrows raised in apology.

“Oh, um- My apologies, I simply-” Cutting himself off, Marco shook his head. “I simply hoped you would know if I would get to see you again tomorrow.” There was a silence in which Jean simply stared at him, unable to decide if he was annoyed, intrigued, or some mixture of the two. “Once again, I’m very sorry,” Marco finished lamely.

Jean just huffed in annoyance and turned on his heels to begin making his way back toward the city-center.

“As with much everything, son of Mars,” he said, not looking back to see whether other man was following him, “such things are entirely at the whim of the gods.”

 

 

 

“If I’m to be stuck with you again today, you’re going to make yourself useful. Or at the very least, not get in the way of my duties.”

“Of course!” Marco smiled over at Jean as he spoke, despite Jean’s growing frown.

It was annoying, the fact that the more Jean frowned and stewed and snapped at the man, the sunnier and more jovial he seemed to grow in demeanor.

Rather un-Mars-like behavior, if you asked Jean. Shouldn’t he have risen to the snide remarks and sullen glares by now? Son of the Roman god of war and it seemed as if nothing could egg this man to even the twitch of an eyebrow.

Marco had not mentioned the incident yesterday and so it remained ignored, seeing as Jean had no interested in being the one to address it. 

A “good show of cooperation” Jean’s mentor had told him this morning when he’d informed Jean that Marco would be accompanying him again today. If the people of Bibracte saw a druid priest, son of Cernunnos, showing a high ranking Roman officer and fellow demigod about the city, he’d told Jean, it would ease their fears and hasten the repair of trust between the Aedui people and Rome.

Although his mentor had a point, Jean was less concerned with the people of the city at the moment and moreso with his rapidly shortening temper concerning said Roman.

“Do you have a busy day ahead of you?” Marco asked. He was wearing much the same thing as the previous day, uniform of _pteruges_ and bronzed chest plate, cloak of blood red trailing behind him the two of them wound their way through the midday city streets of Bibracte.

“Obviously,” Jean replied. “Being a druid is no small undertaking. Especially not when I’m-”

Jean swallowed the words. He didn’t want to think about his birthright and his duties right now. Especially not when the words Marco had spoken to him yesterday outside the market were still swirling in his mind—the silt of a riverbed disturbed by wading feet that had yet to once again settle to the bottom.

_“I know what it is to not be as honorable nor as divine as others expect.”_

“When you’re what?” Marco asked from beside him. He was keeping pace with Jean better than he had managed the day before, spending more time at his side than trailing behind him. From the corner of his eye, Jean saw Marco looking over at him, his head titled to the side, the edge of an teasing smirk curling his mouth. “A demigod?”

_A failure._

There was a part of Jean that wanted to spit the words at Marco, to see what he’d do, to see what would happen when the glorious son of Mars discovered this Gaulish son of the divine to be not similar in his position, but a flawed and undeserving recipient of a birthright he did not fit.

“I’ve been asked by a priestess to help her in a ritual,” Jean said instead.

“Is that where we’re headed now?” asked Marco. Jean just nodded. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Marco’s head twisting this way and that to study the buildings they passed. “Say, Jean?”

“What?”

“Where are all your temples?”

Jean almost rolled his eyes at the earnest way the man had asked. He sighed.

“There aren’t any.”

That was apparently enough to freeze Marco in his tracks. Jean stopped as well, turning to see what was wrong. It was almost amusing, the shocked look the sentiment had brought to Marco’s face.

“You must be joking! No temples?” Jean had to fight an honest to goodness smile at that. It was as if Marco could barely begin to imagine such a thing.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Jean replied, turning to begin walking again both because they had somewhere to be, and to hide the ridiculous smile he was loosing his battle against. “And come on, as I said, I have things to do today.”

“But- But no temples?” Marco stuttered as he jogged to catch up to Jean.

“Our gods don’t require temples. Why should a god need humans to construct places in which to worship them? Our gods are worshiped in the places they’ve made themselves. Groves in forests, the mouths of underground springs—a _nemeton_. Ah-” Jean paused, thinking. “I don’t know if there’s a word for that in Latin. It’s a... a sacred place? Mm, that’s close enough.”

Marco was quiet for a moment, mulling over Jean’s words. He hummed in consideration.

“You should see the temples in Rome,” he said at last. Jean almost scoffed. “They’re awe-inspiring. Perhaps... Well, perhaps the gods don’t _need_ humans to make them, but we do anyways. For us, it’s a- a show of devotion.”

“I suppose,” Jean relented.

“Although, I think there is something to be said for worshiping a god in a place they’ve made themselves.” The sentiment surprised Jean. He hadn’t expected a Roman to relent to any point of view besides his own possessing merit. “Is that where we’re going now? To a- What was it called?”

“A _nemeton_ ,” Jean replied. “And yes. Sort of.”

“ _Ne-me-ton_.” Marco sounded out the word slowly and cautiously, as if taking great care to make his way through it correctly.

“The priestess is a devotee of Icovellauna. She asked for my help with a ritual blessing of a fountain near the southern wall of the city,” Jean explained.

“Icovellauna?” Marco asked. “I— You’ll have to forgive me, it seems you are more familiar with the gods of my nation than I yours.”

Jean scoffed.

“You’re Roman,” he muttered, “it’s to be expected.” To Jean’s surprise, in response Marco barked a sharp laugh. Jean turned to look at him, eyebrow raised. “What? You’re not insulted by my less than gracious comments about the mighty empire of Rome?”

“Not at all!” Marco’s voice was still bright with laughter. “We tend toward habits such as those, don’t we? I mean, take now for instance.” He gestured between the two of them.

“Now?”

“Yes. We’re speaking Latin. In _Gaul_! I come to _your_ city, have _you_ take me about it, and yet it was not expected of me to study your language nor learn of your gods.” Marco shook his head, still smiling. “Less than gracious, you called your words? No. No light jabs or scowls of yours could match the thoughtlessness of we Romans, good druid.”

“I-” Jean found himself wordless for a moment. “That is... surprising,” Jean replied after a moment, his voice quiet. “To hear you say that.”

Again, Marco simply laughed.

“I thought I told you yesterday,” Marco said, his grin luminous and teasing and just maybe, Jean thought, his eyes tinted the barest hint of red. “I think you’ll find a lot of things about me surprising.”

Jean opened his mouth to reply, to retort back at this confusing and irksome and, yes, surprising son of Mars, but was interrupted by a shout of his name.

Both he and Marco’s heads jerked towards the sound to find a minuscule blonde woman, striding toward them from the center of the plaza. She had her arm raised as high in the air as it would extend, waving it wildly. She was so small that Jean though, perhaps, the hand in the air was primarily so that they would be able to spot her in the street and only secondarily for the purposes of greeting.

“Hello, Jean!” The woman greeted as soon as she was near to the two of them. Beside Marco—a tall, broad, and dark soldier of the Roman Empire—she looked even smaller. “Thank you for coming!”

“Historia,” Jean inclined his head in greeting. He glanced back to Marco, switching to Latin to introduce them. “Marco, this is Historia, priestess of Icovellauna, goddess of sacred springs and healing waters. Historia, this is Marco, son of Mars, _optio_ of the second cohort. I’ve been...” Jean paused, pursing his lips, “ _tasked_ with showing him around our fine city while he’s here.”

Historia studied Marco for a moment, her eyes sharp and belying a fearsome intelligence. She always gave Jean the impression that she knew far more than she ever let on and was only not doing so as some kind of gracious favor to you.

“Pleasure to meet you, son of Mars.”

Marco’s mouth twisted in an almost embarrassed smile. His cheeks flushed.

“Ah, n-no,” he stuttered, inclining his head and shoulders in a partial bow. “The pleasure is mine. Pardon my intrusion on a ritual to your goddess.”

Historia said nothing, only let out a small hum at Marco’s words. They seemed to have impressed her. Or simply have surprised her.

It seemed Marco was doing that to a lot of people in this city.

 

 

 

Marco was surprisingly attentive as Jean and Historia began to work, unloading bundles of herbs around the ceramic fountain set in the plaza’s center. Pulling a few beautifully crafted jugs engraved with fine delicate designs and elaborate scenes, Historia began to fill them with the water from the fountain.

The water had been coming up from the spring that fed the fountain in fits and starts lately, occasionally tinged yellow and sickly. Historia had enlisted Jean’s help since, as the son of the god of nature and life, if any plant or animal life were involved in the blockages to the spring, his power might be able to assist.

Historia plunked down a jug of water at the last of the four cardinal directions and heaved a heavy breath, leaning against the edge of the fountain.

“I think we should be all set to begin,” she said, then frowned as she surveyed the scene. “Wait a moment.”

“What’s wrong?” Jean sighed.

The sun had risen high overhead and the heat of the afternoon had begun to set in and was only going to get worse the longer they took.

It seemed even to be getting to Marco, who had remained quiet, watching them work, but now when Jean looked over, wiping the sweat from his brow, the soldier’s red cloak and bronze armor were leaned against a nearby wall beside a satchel Historia had brought with her. Beneath those, Marco was wearing only a beige sleeveless wool tunic.

The sight took Jean aback. Without the bright colors and intimidating armor, trademarks of the Roman uniform, Marco looked startlingly ordinary. He looked like some low-rank Roman soldier, perhaps even simply some sort of city guard beginning to sweat in the growing afternoon heat.

“It’s... off balance,” Historia answered, her mouth twisted in concentration, eyes darting about the fountain.

“Isn’t that the whole point of why we’re here?” Jean asked.

When her eyes finally landed on Marco, they narrowed. She smiled knowingly.

“Ah,” she said, jerking her chin at Marco. “It’s him.”

Marco’s eyes widened and, although most of the people had cleared out of the plaza the sight of a druid and a priestess beginning work in the area and there was no one near him, he looked around behind him.

“Who, me?”

Historia smiled and laughed, shaking her head to herself.

“Yes, you. I should have known.” She looked to Jean, gesturing to a hand over to where Marco stood. “He’s the son of a god. Of course he’s going to throw things off!”

“But-” Jean protested. “But not _our_ gods.”

Historia sighed and shook her head.

“Oh, Jean. You really think they are that different?” She leant to pick up one of the jugs, walking around the fountain to reposition it, then did the same with another. “The water cares not for the nations of humans. Icovellauna is not the patron goddess of a city or a people. The water of this spring doesn’t know Rome from Bibracte. It knows of those who care for it, who tend to it, who use it to wash and drink and pray. It knows divinity, and it senses it in him.”

Jean just watched her—watched Marco out of the corner of his eyes.

Having situated three of the four water jugs along one side of the fountain, she stood up and brushed off her robes. She pointed to the newly empty side.

“Hold that last jug and stand there if you would, please, Marco,” she said.

“O-of course,” Marco replied, springing to take his place where she’d indicated. He looked a little wary, but eager to help. “If you’re sure. I’m not sure the son of a war god would be much help in matters of healing water, though.”

Jean saw Marco bite his lip, heard his voice soften the slightest bit when he said it.

Historia watched him pick up the jug and hold it, then closed her eyes and tilted her head ever-so-slightly to the sky.

“Ah, yes,” she said, mostly to herself. “That’s what it was, all right.”

And Jean could feel it too. Even though his divine tie was to living things and not to the waters of this spring, he could feel it. Like a crooked painting having been straightened on a wall. Like taking the first step after having extracted a rock from one shoe.

He heard Marco’s intake of breath and looked over at him. His eyes were wide as he stared down at the jug of water. Historia huffed a smug laugh, striding to take her previous place in order to begin the ritual. Jean followed suit, taking his own place opposite her.

Things went pretty smoothly for a while, with Historia praying over the various jugs of water and Jean placing bits of herbs in the fountain at certain times.

That was, of course, until Historia moved to speak with her hand over the jug Marco was holding.

From where Jean was standing, it looked as if the water swelled upwards from the fountain, reaching out and grabbing Marco, dragging him forward. Marco let out a shout of surprise as he toppled forward, knocking into Historia as he did so, sending them both careening over the lip of the fountain and crashing into the basin pool at it’s feet.

Jean lunged forward, ignoring the geyser-like explosion of water that gushed skyward in a vertical torrent the moment Historia and Marco tumbled into the water.

“Marco! Historia!” Jean shouted, reaching forward to grab them, to lend them assistance.

This was just great. _Best_ case scenario, both of them had managed to avoid injuries. But that still meant that the Roman delegation was going to hear the story of how an _optio_ of theirs and a son of Mars had been shoved into a fountain. His chest felt tight, his breaths coming fast.

His scrabbling hands found a wrist, a shoulder, and he tugged upwards. The water that had shot upwards fell down like rain, soaking everything in the radius of the fountain. The drops sparkled in the bright midday sun, like precious gems tossed heaven-ward by some carefree and ecstatic hand.

And then Jean heard it. Laughter.

They were _laughing._

Laughing and coughing, Historia was clutching Marco’s knee and Marco was clutching Historia’s shoulder as they scrambled to right themselves in the shallow water. Historia’s blonde hair hung about her pretty face in damp clumps, and the dark curls of Marco’s bangs were plastered to his forehead.

“Wha-” Jean stuttered, his hands darting about, not knowing what to do. Had they hit their heads? “A-are- Are you two okay?”

“I’m fine!” Marco managed through his laughter, his face bright with it. He looked up at Jean, grinning broadly, water clinging to his eyelashes like morning dew. “I’m perfectly fine, I promise!”

Historia was still snickering, but she used her hand on Marco’s knee to haul herself to her feet, sloshing to the lip of the pool. Jean just shook his head in exasperation and exhaled heavily, his heart still thundering an anxious staccato in his ears.

“It seems the water likes you, son of Mars,” she snickered as she hauled her foot over the edge, beginning to wring the water from her hair.

“You think so?” Marco asked, looking from her and back to Jean.

He was still grinning when Jean silently held his hand out to Marco, the droplets of water on his cheeks glittering in the midday sun like a sky full of joyous stars.

 

 

 

“Thank you for doing this. You didn’t have to.” Jean nearly rolled his eyes, but kept them fixed on the wall with his back resolutely turned as the Roman stripped off his soaking clothes, Jean doing the same himself.

“I wasn’t going to make you walk around in wet clothes all day. That’s how you get sick,” Jean said. He heard the rustling of fabric and thought of the way Marco’s wet tunic had clung to the lines of his chest on the walk back to the druid housing and Jean’s small room there, how the wet material had revealed the dark spread of hair across the other man’s chest. Jean swallowed hard and pulled a dry set of undergarments up his legs. “And if I got you sick, I think it might undo a lot of the attempted diplomatic work that’s being attempted here.” 

Behind him, the noises quieted as Marco stilled.

“I-” He heard Marco start, then the heavy sigh of his exhale. There was a small, humorless laugh. “Is that what this has been? Diplomacy?”

Jean furrowed his brow, pausing with a dry tunic in his hand.

“Is it not?”

Another exhale came. Jean frowned. 

“Would you not consider us friends by now?” Marco inquired softly. In that moment, Jean wanted very badly to turn and face Marco, to study the expression on the other man’s face, to see if it would provide him with some piece of Marco’s meaning that he was so obviously missing.

“...the Aedui people have always been friends with the Romans,” Jean replied cautiously, then pulled the dry tunic over his head.

“I’m not talking about our people. I’m talking about us.”

At the touch of a hand on his shoulder, Jean turned, surprised, to find Marco in front of him, clothes dry and eyes startlingly earnest.

“You should have asked me if I was done changing before you-” Jean stopped, blinking rapidly at Marco, his gaze darting the other man’s shoulders, his collar, his waist. Inexplicably, he felt his face heating. Jean managed a weak: “Oh.”

“What?” Marco asked. His hair was still a little damp, beginning to curl about his temples as it dried.

“Oh, uh, nothing. You just...” Jean cleared his throat, stepping around Marco to the pile of soaked fabric Marco had laid on the dresser. Marco let his hand drop from Jean’s shoulder as he moved away. “I didn’t expect Gaulish clothes to suit you, is all. I’m, ah- I’m going to go hang these up to dry. I’ll be right back?”

Jean could feel his heart thundering in the hollow of his throat. He swallowed, trying to get it to slow.

When Jean returned, Marco was seated on the edge of his narrow cot, leaning back on his hands, looking around the small room with interest.

“What?” Jean asked, trying not to let his face heat back up at the sight of Marco in casual Gaulish clothing.

“Oh, nothing. I just- “ Marco looked around again before returning his gaze to Jean and shrugging. “I supposed I would have expected there to be more... green.” He flashed a grin at Jean. But the brightness drained from his expression when he met Jean’s. Jean tried to swallow against the lump in his throat. He turned away.

“I try not to be reminded.”

“Of your father? Why?” Marco asked in that same soft, earnestly naive way. As if he truly cared why Jean did not want to have tokens of his inadequacy strewn around his room.

Jean whirled, anger flaring in him like a flame.

“You keep saying things like that!” he exclaimed. “Why do you care so much?”

Marco frowned and crossed his arms.

“And _you_ keep avoiding all of my questions about your father.”

“I don’t-” Jean began to protest, but Marco stood, annoyance flashing across his face. 

“I care because I thought I saw in you someone I could relate to!” Marco took a few steps toward Jean, uncrossing his arms to gesture at Jean in angry jerking movements. “But at ever turn, you avoid speaking to me. You brush me aside. I understand I’m not very much like my father, and I know what a disappointment that can be to some, but I didn't think you would-”

“ _What_?” At Jean’s hushed, confused exhale, Marco fell silent. “You think you-”

Marco leveled Jean with a hard stare.

“I think I what?” he asked, voice low and daring.

Every statement and expression Jean had witnessed from Marco in the past two days rearranged themselves in Jean’s mind. His insistence that he was neither as noble nor as divine. His awareness his ignorance of Jean’s culture. His easy smiles and helpful attitude. The way healing water had leapt from its resting place to embrace him.

Jean lifted a hand to his forehead, mind whirling, and he let out a long breath.

“I’m an idiot.”

In a flash, Marco’s expression smoothed into kind amusement, the corners of his lips pulling up.

“I wasn’t going to mention anything,” he said.

 "You weren't- I mean, we-" Jean stuttered, his arms flailing in nonsensical gestures. "I thought that if I- I mean, that you-"

Marco just crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, infinitely amused.

"Uh-huh?"

"I just feel like I'm not-" Jean tried, his words ending before he could manage to finish. He felt small and foolish in the face of possibly admitting his inadequacy.

Marco's bemused smile slid into something softer around the edges, more understanding.

Marco took a step closer, unfolding his arms, and reaching out to curl his palm against the side of Jean's neck. His hand was warm against Jean's bare skin.

"Good enough," Marco finished, infinitely sad and fond and knowing. "I know."

Jean's eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by shame and vulnerability and, strangely, relief.

"Yes," he managed, his eyes still closed, Marco's warm hand against his skin a grounding weight. "Yes, exactly. I just...I'm supposed to help my people; that’s what being a druid priest and the child of the divine means. My father is a peaceful god of nature, someone who keeps the balance of life." Jean shook his head. "But I'm not balanced. I'm not peaceful. I have a- There's an itch under my skin. Something angry and sharp in me, I think."

Jean didn't want to open his eyes, but then Marco laughed. And Jean had the singular thought that his laugh was something terribly beautiful—something the gods should find a way to paint into the stars.

"Well, I _am_ gentle. What worse thing is there to be when you are the son of Mars? I don't have a drive inside me that pushes me to fight. It's... shameful."

Jean did open his eyes then, to find Marco looking down and away, long dark eyelashes casting spiderweb shadows across the night's sky of his cheeks.

He looked so sad, then. And despite his jackrabbit pulse and fluttering breath, Jean couldn't stand it. He reached out a trembling hand to slide it along Marco's cheek, softly urging him to look back up.

Jean shook his head.

"I don't think it's shameful not to want to fight," he said softly. Marco smiled a little, but it was rueful.

"Perhaps I would be more suited to the lineage of your father, Jean. I would very much like to grow things instead of only killing them."

Jean huffed a laugh, smiling.

"In that case, maybe I can teach you a few things."

Marco's face was very close to his own now, his beautiful freckles bright beneath Jean's palm, Marco's hand warm on his neck.

"I would like that," Marco breathed and Jean felt it on his skin, just like the day before when Marco had pinned him to the wall of the alley and told Jean that he might be surprised by him. 

Only this time, when that red light flared to life behind his eyes, it was a softer kind—a hearth fire as opposed to an inferno.

When Marco kissed him, Jean swore he could feel it's heat blaze against his lips.

“I’m not like my father," Jean whispered against Marco's lips, more to himself than to Marco. He slipped his other hand across the curve of Marco's waist, pressing his fingers in to feel the solidity of his form, to assure himself that Marco was just as earthly as him.

"We are not our fathers," Marco replied quietly but fiercely, pulling back far enough to cup Jean's face in his palms as he said it. His look was intense and wonderful and glorious and Jean wanted nothing more than to have Marco keep looking at him like that. "And sometimes I think we forget that we're equally as human as we are divine."

Marco leaned in to kiss him again, quick and warm and fierce and Jean felt so incredibly and fantastically human, just then.

He laughed, shaking his head in amazement before leaning his forehead against Marco's.

"Maybe moreso, sometimes," he murmured.

This close, with the focus of his eyes blurring Marco's grin, Jean felt as if he were looking up to the faraway stars and reading the patterns of the future taking shape there—the sight of a tiny, fragile seed beginning to sprout.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!  
>   
> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)


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